


Karma Is A Big Brother

by LadyGlinda



Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, M/M, Mary gets what she deserves, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Protective Mycroft, Revenge, Sibling Incest, Texting, holmescest, not season four compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mary gets a visitor, who has waited for the right moment to show her what he thinks of her nearly killing his little brother.Little did Mycroft know that this would bring him and Sherlock together.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867705
Comments: 97
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Some Kind of Answer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215419) by [Trillsabells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/pseuds/Trillsabells). 



> The warnings refer to the first chapter. Neither of the Holmes boys will die, of course!

“Don’t forget her anywhere!”

John chuckled. “Ah, I’ll manage. Will bring her back in one piece.”

Mary smiled. Some Rosie- and Daddy-time would be good for them. And for her. “Fine. Call me if...”

“We’ll be fine! The princess and me.” John kissed her on the lips. “Will be back in about an hour.”

Mary watched them leave, the doctor and the baby in the carry-cot, and then she closed the door behind them. An hour for herself – what a luxury. She’d dye her hair. Paint her toenails. Dance to her favourite music. Or maybe just sit down and read the papers.

She had turned to go to the living room when the door behind her opened up again. “Oh, John. What did you forget?”

But it wasn’t John. Her heart missed a beat. She had been slipping. Lost her assassin-instincts. Relied on something as ridiculous as sibling rivalry, perhaps. Thought she had gotten away. Stupid. Unforgivable. Lethal.

“Mr Holmes.” Her voice was hardly shaking and wasn’t that something to be proud of… “Long time no see.”

Mycroft Holmes, dressed impeccably in a light-grey three-piece-suit, leaned his umbrella against the wall next to the door. “Indeed, Mrs Watson. That’s your name these days, isn’t it?” His voice was calm. His eyes were pale-blue oceans of ice.

Was this man ever showing emotions? In any way he did have them. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here. There was no question why he had come, the man who usually made decisions from behind his desk. She doubted he had done fieldwork for a day. “You know I could snap you in two. Easily.”

Mycroft actually smiled at this. “Could you now? Maybe.” A moment later there was a gun in his hand. A silencer was attached to it. “I do think this would fire faster than you can move.”

“He forgave me.” Mary didn’t feel scared. It was more a feeling of numbness. Of inevitability. She had to try though. Try to talk yourself out of this. As futile as it was. She had met this man before - in her old days. She knew his reputation. A cold man. A dangerous man. But in fact she had missed something essential - family affection. The thought reminded her of Rosie. _God, Rosie..._

Mycroft nodded. “My brother tends to forgive everyone associated with the name Watson rather easily. He even murdered for you.” There was a hint of rage in his voice.

“He will hate you if you kill me.”

“Ah. You see, our relationship has always been a bit… difficult. And of course he will have no idea that it was me. He wouldn’t even consider it. He thinks I don’t care.” For a moment there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes.

_He loves Sherlock. He would have always found a way to have him return to England._

_I will never see John again. Never hold Rosie again. It is not fair!_ “He survived. I didn’t kill him.”

“Oh, you did. Don’t you know the doctors had already given him up?”

Mary stared at him. “No. That is not true.”

“Oh, it is. He fought himself back to life but he had been clinically dead. For someone so good with guns that was a massive mistake. Or did you want to kill him in the end? Then you could have been sure he wouldn’t give you away. What if he had told your husband who you really are?”

Mary didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because of course he was right. If Sherlock had really threatened to tell John, she would have had to kill him. She couldn’t have lost her new life again. Love. Family. She had almost lost it anyway but then John had forgiven her. Sherlock had taken care of Magnussen. She had taken her second chance. A bright new future.

Not for long.

Mycroft nodded as if she had answered. “I do not like people who aim to kill my little brother.”

“He despises you,” she spat out.

Mycroft's eyelids twitched. “Be that as it may.” He waved the hand with the gun. “Any last words?”

“Such a cliché. John will be back in a minute. He...”

“Well, rather hope he won’t. Because then I will have to shoot him as well. And what will become of your baby then? Please notice I was so kind to wait until it was born.”

“Please… I’ve changed. I will never harm your brother again.”

“Begging? I expected better from you.” He sounded amused. “And what if your past catches up with you again? It will, you know, even now that Magnussen is dead. Your enemies are legion.”

“I will leave Sherlock's and John’s life if you want.” The biggest sacrifice. Well, the second biggest…

“I’m afraid that is not good enough for me. Knowing my brother, he would go after you and do so until he'd find you. As it is now, he will try to find your killer. But he won’t. Goodbye, Mrs Watson.” He raised his hand and fired without any further dalliance.

She had not tried to flee. The moment she had seen him, she had known.

The bullet hit her throat. Made her crash onto the floor. She didn’t reach up to the wound. Feeling the blood streaming out of her body, she was lying still. Her eyes met Mycroft's once more.

There was no hint of remorse in his eyes. Not even that much triumph. He had simply done what he had come for. Now he would return to his office, go on with his daily work.

Mary wasn’t feeling a lot of pain. She was floating. She was feeling light.

And then it was over.

°°°

Mycroft left through the back door like he had come. A black car was waiting for him. The driver was Anthea.

“To the office, please,” he said when he had sat down on the back seat.

“Sure, sir.”

He took his laptop. It was time to do some work. But before he managed to concentrate on the report about the Ukraine, he thought, _‘For you, Sherlock. Everything for you.’_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to write on, making this a Holmescest fic (now that is a surprise! :)) I'm not sure how long it will get and how explicit. It may move away from the original idea eventually. But of course it remains the starting point.

“What shall I do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up. He had been sitting in his chair, motionless. He had heard everything that had been going on around him but he had not shown any reaction to it. They had come to Baker Street after the funeral. Nobody from Mary’s side. Only Molly and Lestrade had joined them. Mrs Hudson had been crying the most. Molly had sobbed as well. Lestrade had been sitting in the church, stone-faced. Just like John.

There had been tea and cake. Quiet conversation. Now they were all gone. Mrs Hudson had taken Rosie to her flat, where she would stay the night since John had to work early in the morning. He had only taken a few days off. Work helped, he had said.

“Well, John. You heard them. Mrs Hudson and Molly will help you raising Rosie,” Sherlock said now. “I will, too, of course, as much as I am able to. Even Lestrade offered to...”

“Yeah, heard that. It’s great. Babysitters available. If they don’t have time, I can pay one. But… I don’t know what to _do_. If we never find out who it was.”

Sherlock nodded. It was eating away on him, too. Of course it was. Whoever had shot Mary had been very smart. None of the other tenants had been in the house. No traces had been left. There were no street cameras in this area. The examination of the bullet had led to nothing. The gun had never been used in a crime before. And Sherlock was sure it had been destroyed directly after the murder. How had he, or maybe she, come into the flat? The door had not been opened up violently. So Mary must have let them in. Or… they had come in with a key. He had gone over the facts with Lestrade a dozen times. With no helpful result whatsoever.

“Fucking damaged door,” John mumbled, not for the first time.

Yes. Everybody could have entered through the front door. Or they had taken the back door. No traces for a break-in on this one, either.

There had been no sign of sexual abuse. Nothing had been stolen. This was no robbery gone wrong. Someone had come with the single purpose of killing her. A relative of someone she had assassinated in her days? A former associate? Sherlock had no idea what exactly had happened in Mary’s past. Neither had John. They didn’t even know her sodding real name! They had nothing to go on with.

An unsolved case. A sore point in general. A nightmare in this case.

“We’ve only just… started to get along really greatly,” John mumbled. “It was all good. And now...” He buried his face in his hands and finally started to cry, and Sherlock felt like running off.

He couldn’t, of course. Grimacing, he got up to put a hand onto John's shoulder. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. What could he say that would ease his friend's pain? Clearly nothing. He had no platitudes to offer. No hollow consolation. And he, the great Sherlock Holmes, had not been able to find the killer.

“What will I tell Rosie when she asks who murdered her mother?” John sobbed.

Sherlock took a deep breath. There was one single thing he had not tried yet. “I’ll talk to my brother. With his connections, he might be able to help.”

*****

Had Anthea given it away with just one twitching of her mouth? A fluttering eyelid? Or had Sherlock got suspicious the moment he walked into his office?

In any way when he closed the door behind him with his heel, a myriad of emotions were showing on the detective’s face. Confusion. Shock. Disbelief.

Neither of them spoke. They just stared at one another. Mycroft felt his cheeks flush the tiniest bit. That alone made everything clear.

His face could show no remorse because he didn’t feel any. He had done what had been necessary. He couldn’t have risked Sherlock getting hurt by this woman again. The past would have crept up on her eventually. It would have been inevitable. And it would have effected everybody around her – Sherlock had to know this, too.

Perhaps Mycroft had even saved the child. Not that he cared. He had not waited with unleashing his wrath at this woman until she had given birth for any altruistic reason. He had just wanted her to have as much to lose as possible. He would have struck before if he had known just how far Sherlock was willing to go for her – killing someone who threatened her, almost destroying his own life in the go. The panic he had been feeling in the helicopter, watching Sherlock with Magnussen and then shooting him, had been fuelled by the knowledge that he could have prevented this. His harsh reaction towards Sherlock, sending him on this mission, had been caused by his anger at him and his foolish affection for his blogger and his wife. He would have gotten him out, of course, if Sherlock hadn’t been able to do it himself. But he had wanted to punish him.

He didn’t mention anything of this. He said nothing at all.

Sherlock was breathing hard. His face was impossible to read now. His hands were balling into fists, then opening again.

Mycroft was prepared for his wrath.

Hadn’t he known Sherlock would find out? Hadn’t he even provoked it? He could have taken this woman from the street, letting her disappear for good. Even laying false trails to suggest she had escaped her new life. Because of postnatal depressions, maybe. Or simply feeling trapped. But he had merely killed her and left her to be found. And now Sherlock had found the murderer when he had in all probability come here to ask him for help to get him.

And said nothing, still not. Staring at him, his hands finally relaxing again. Then he made a step towards his desk. “I made a vow, brother. A vow to protect them all.” His voice was toneless. His eyes were fierce.

Mycroft nodded. “So did I, brother mine. When you were born. To keep every harm away from you.” The words had come spontaneously. Unfiltered. But he had said it before, in other words. _‘I’ll always be there for you.’_ This included taking out someone who had it coming. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” he added, his voice raspy.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He stared at him, his mouth falling open. Then he closed it, turned on his heels and stalked out, not looking back, not saying another word.

Mycroft slumped in his chair. He had no idea what his brother would do now.

Anthea appeared in the door. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said quietly. “I behaved as usual. But maybe he saw...”

“Never mind, Anthea. He is a very smart man. Who sometimes makes very silly decisions.”

“What do you think he...”

“I don’t know. We will see. If John Watson shows up, he is not to be let in without checking him through discreetly.” Not that he thought John would be so stupid to try and shoot him in the Cabinet Office. But the man had a foul temper – he had shown it when Sherlock had returned from his mission. He might just storm off with his gun to take revenge. If Sherlock told him. Would he?

It was a disturbing situation. But he still felt no regrets. He would do the same again.

The ball was on Sherlock's side now. He could only hope he would play it right. And see. Understand. Feel.

It was the depth and the nature of his feelings for the brother he had sworn to look after the day he was born that made him feel as if he was doomed, whatever Sherlock decided to do. Because Sherlock had just proven how good his deduction abilities really were.

Had he understood?

“Go home, Anthea,” he said quietly. “I’ll finish a few things and will leave as well then.” It was almost six. Nothing urgent to take care of. He would go home soon.

And wait.


	3. Chapter 3

John was gone when Sherlock entered 221B. He had heard Mrs Hudson say something when he had been walking upstairs but he had just made a shushing gesture with his hand and ignored her. He couldn’t have spoken with her. Or with anyone, actually.

Never. Never in his life would he have suspected this – Mycroft murdering Mary. For him. How foolish. Hadn’t he thought how smart the murderer must have been? Come and gone like a ghost. Not taken anything but Mary’s life. A person on a mission. A mission of vengeance. A relative of a victim, he had pondered. Yes. Quite so.

He instinctively put his hand onto his chest. The wound was healed but the scar still hurt. The pain would disappear eventually but the scar would stay forever. He had not resented Mary for it. Forgiven her instantly because he had seen her reasons. Forgiven her long before John had done it. Forgiven but not forgotten, as they said.

Mycroft had not come to see him in the hospital. They had only met for Christmas, when he had been feeling much better. Christmas… When he had sedated the entire family and stolen Mycroft's laptop for his failed scheme regarding Magnussen.

But he had seen Mycroft. In his Mind Palace. When he had been, well, dying. It had been Mycroft's advice (fine, and Imagined Moriarty’s teasing) that had made him survive. Of course he had never told his brother. He might have laughed. But perhaps not…

Anyone who might have watched him sitting in his chair – his face resting on his fingers, which were forming a reversed ‘V’ – would not have noticed anything unusual about him. To the world he would have seemed like the cool, rational, all-mind-no-emotion detective. But inside, he was tumbling. His world as he had known it had been turned upside down. Not only by a murder. But by the fact that it had been committed by someone who had told him before that he cared, but Sherlock had not really believed it at this point. Not after Mycroft had sent him on a death mission. For a reason, naturally, but still. Now he knew Mycroft would have come to get him out, if he had not managed by himself. Now he knew that his brother cared. A lot. Enough to kill for him.

He wanted to feel anger. How dare Mycroft do this? How could he have taken a new-born baby’s mother? John’s wife?

But what he felt instead was… so much else. Confusion. Shock. He was frozen in shock. And deep inside, there was something else. Something he knew he couldn’t process right now as it was shaking up the foundations of his entire existence. How was he supposed to ever be able to?

The longer he was sitting in his chair, the more glimpses of the past were haunting him. Memories he had obviously repressed – but not deleted. He, lying in a drug den. High as a kite. Being pulled out by his arm. Hospital beds. A tall figure next to them, looking down on him with disappointment. And worry. And even earlier memories of the childhood of a little boy who wasn’t listening to anybody. Anybody but his big brother. A child whose first word had not been ‘Mummy’. Let alone ‘Papa’. It had been a name too difficult to spell for him. The adults had laughed. But the boy with the complicated name had not. And he had reacted to every manhandled form of ‘Mycroft’. With a look of love in his eyes. Sometimes also with exasperation, when Sherlock had destroyed something, accidentally or voluntarily. But always with love.

A love that had never vanished, obviously, whatever Sherlock had done. A love – he finally allowed himself to think about it – which had grown in ways that Sherlock had never even imagined.

Sherlock did not move the entire night.

*****

Mycroft just briefly glanced at the switched-off alarm. He regarded the neatly hung-up coat next to the door. The deduction was clear. Sherlock was here. Alone. The house was silent. And John Watson was at work – he had checked it. And he knew Anthea had tracked the doctor’s phone all day, afraid he could attack him. Or try to, at least. He had not.

Mycroft had been spending an almost completely sleepless previous night. No word from Sherlock. During the day, he had been busy as always. Still no sign of his brother. It had not surprised him. It had not been to be expected that he would react so quickly. There were things that even the great consulting detective couldn’t think through in record time.

But now, after a long, arduous day in the office, Mycroft would have to deal with him. And with all his foresight and deduction prowess, he couldn’t have said which kind of reaction he had to expect now. But one thing was obvious: Sherlock had not told John who had shot his wife.

He found him in the living room, where he had switched on one small lamp, leaving the room in a pale, dim light. He was holding a glass in his long-fingered right hand. The bottle and a fresh glass were placed on the table next to the couch he was sitting on.

Their eyes met for a moment – Sherlock's face was calm and impossible to deduce. Mycroft nodded at him and then got himself a drink as well and sat down in his armchair, crossing his legs. No word had been spoken so far. Mycroft could not start this conversation. Sherlock had come. He had to make the next move as well.

And Mycroft didn’t know what to expect. Accusations? It didn’t look like it. He had put his cards onto the table the previous day. Sherlock knew what he had done. And why. Mycroft was not sure if he had fully grasped his… emotions. It had taken Mycroft himself years to finally understand them. And even longer to make some sort of peace with them as they would not go away. But to mouth them, now, especially after what he had done – he just couldn’t.

He was feeling awkward, and now he could see the anxiety on Sherlock’s face as well. And he knew he had to do something now or their relationship (or what was left of it) would be destroyed forever. He could only hope that he would do the right thing.

*****

With every minute of this strangely loaded silence, Sherlock had been feeling more uncomfortable. Why had he come here? What did he want to gain out of this? He, Mr Rational-And-Reason, had come without a plan. Without a clue. He was as far out of his depth as anyone could get.

He could have told Mycroft how desperate John was or how Rosie seemed to look around, searching for her mother. Too young to articulate her worries but aware enough to know Mummy was missing. But what good would it have done? Mary was dead and nothing would bring her back. And he did see that if Magnussen could find out about her, others could have done, too. Someone could have been searching for her and endanger her life. And Rosie’s and John’s all along. And perhaps Sherlock's life, too. And apart from taking revenge for her shooting him (and what a thought this was), this must have been one of the main reasons for Mycroft to do this. And somehow, as cruel as it was… It seemed to be past already. It wasn’t for John and Rosie, who would have to live with the loss of wife and mother forever. But here, right now, in this room, it seemed like ancient history or even to have happened in a different universe.

But what was the future? What did he want from it?

It was easy to say what Mycroft wanted. Of course he didn’t show it openly but Sherlock could see it clearly now that his eyes had been opened. Sense it. What his brother had been hiding for probably a long time. At some point during the previous night, he had allowed to name the feelings he had seen in Mycroft's eyes and heard between the lines. And now his brother seemed to want Sherlock to make the first step. How could he even? He was not quite as inexperienced as everybody seemed to believe. The Virgin. Not quite. There had been experimentation. He had not been repulsed. But he had been bored. Groping and messy kisses, empty compliments and unwelcome closeness. All for a little bit of a thrill that faded the next second. It had not mattered. But this… This was different. In which way but the obvious he couldn’t say. Not yet. Perhaps never, if neither of them gathered enough courage to cross the line.

And then Mycroft slowly got up and looked at him, inquiringly. After a few seconds, Sherlock nodded briefly. With slow steps, Mycroft came over to the couch and sat down next to him. Not close enough to touch but in reach.

His hand was shivering. He could smell him. A faint hint of eau de cologne. Tea. Clean clothes, even after a long day at work. Deodorant, not sweat. No stubble. Had he really freshened up and shaved before coming home? Had he anticipated Sherlock's visit? Or simply hoped for it?

His nervousness reached a new record. He downed the rest of the whiskey, a good one, but what else was to be expected.

And then Mycroft asked him something which suddenly changed the situation. “Have you eaten anything, little brother?”

This was it. Mycroft in a nutshell. Mycroft ‘Caring Is Not An Advantage’ Holmes. Who had gotten Sherlock out of so much trouble in his life. Who had never given up on him, no matter how much Sherlock had been fighting him. Always caring. Hidden behind his mask of smugness and indifference, there wasn’t an Iceman. Just Mycroft, his brother. Who would basically do anything for him. And he had.

Shivering with an attack of disturbing sentiment, Sherlock turned to him. His eyes were an open invitation to act. To be there for him like Mycroft had said he always would.

Mycroft’s pupils widened – and then he closed the last distance between them and slowly, carefully, put his arm around his shoulder, always willing to retreat should Sherlock object. Which he did not. Ever so lightly, he leaned his head to the side until it touched Mycroft's. The sensation of cheek on cheek made him wince but not in an unpleasant way.

When he spoke, the words came out unplanned. “We’re even now, Mycroft. We both killed someone.”

Mycroft breathed in sharply. Then he nodded. “Yes. We both killed for whom we… care about.”

Sherlock was sure he had wanted to use another word. The biggest one. And to his deep surprise, he felt no fear. Let alone did it bother him. Very slowly he reached out with his hand, and a moment later, long, warm fingers entwined with his. It didn’t feel like an electric shock as he had expected. It felt warm, and comforting. Just nice, basically.

“You didn’t tell John,” Mycroft whispered.

“No. And I won’t.” Nothing could bring Mary back. And he might have tried to sell his brother to Magnussen. He would not sell him to John. As it was, he would not sell or betray him at all anymore, and if he had tended to do so, he would have felt ashamed about doing it before. Perhaps he did, anyway.

They were silent for a while. Their fingers were lightly rubbing against each other. Sherlock's heart was beating fast and he could literally feel Mycroft's racing as well. Here in Mycroft's dark living room, the brothers Holmes had found each other. Over pain and death and murder, they had closed a rift that had been wide open for decades. Mycroft had filled it with nothing else but sentiment, showing how much exactly Sherlock meant to him.

What did he feel for his brother? Enough to be sitting with him like this. Enough to touch his hand. To have his cheek touching his.

“I… This is all...” Sherlock broke off, not knowing how to go on.

“...scary, I know. In your time, Sherlock. And if you never want to… It’s okay. No pressure.”

Sherlock nodded. Then he pulled back to look at his brother. Pale blue eyes looked back, deduced him, seemed to dig in his brain. Or rather – his heart. And when Sherlock moved his head just this tiny bit forward, Mycroft did the same, and a moment later their lips met. A gentle, careful peck with closed lips. It felt warm and strange and… nice. They repeated it before parting again. The scientist in Sherlock catalogued his reactions, the temperature of these soft lips, the scent and taste. The man just realised that he liked this. Very much.

And Mycroft smiled at him, and this smile changed his whole appearance. A smile of warmth and care and love, and Sherlock caught himself smiling back.


	4. Chapter 4

“Do come in, little brother.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped into Mycroft's house. It was rather late and he had spent the evening solving a case for the Met.

‘ _How is John coping?’ Lestrade had asked._

_Sherlock had shrugged. ‘It’s hard.’_

‘ _Yeah, poor lad.’_

_He had given him a nod. “Yes. Tell me about the case.’_

He hadn’t asked John to come with him. The doctor had other things on his mind right now. And Sherlock had no idea how to face him now. He knew Molly was spending time with him and Rosie as much as she could. John’s sister had also offered her help. Perhaps it would bring them closer together.

“I’ve prepared some sandwiches,” Mycroft told him when he was following him to the living room after hanging up his dripping coat.

“Good. Thank you.” He was a bit hungry. He had skipped lunch. Actually, he had not eaten all that much since… Well, ever since he had left to dismantle Moriarty’s network. John hadn’t been there to look after him so he had fallen back into old habits. Mrs Hudson made sure he had breakfast. But he had not once been to Angelo’s since he had come back. His ribs were clearly visible under his skin. Getting shot had not helped, either.

But Mycroft had lost weight as well. He had been slim for a long time already after losing the chubbiness of his youth but now he was thinner than ever. _Worry_ , Sherlock thought. _He did worry about me when I was away. When I had to deal with the changes in my life after coming back. And of course – when I was shot._

He had been remarkably blind to all this. For ages. Mentally stepping back, he could see now that he had been obsessed with John. With Mary. Fighting for them. Murdering for them. As if John had not just been his friend but a part of his existence. And John had found someone else to share his life with, in a completely different way, and that was fine. But he had not even listened to Sherlock when he had come back. He had faked his death for a reason. And saving John had been the most important one of them.

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asked him, and Sherlock realised he had been silent for too long.

He nodded. “Yes. All fine.”

They sat down and Sherlock nibbled at a cucumber sandwich with thin slices of egg. Suddenly he thought about the wedding. How out of place he had been feeling. Just like Mrs Hudson had predicted. And whom had he called? Mycroft. “Why didn't you come?”

“Sorry?” Mycroft tilted his head, his eyes looking concerned.

“When I asked you to come to John’s wedding.”

“Oh. I…” Mycroft shook his head. “I thought you were mocking me.”

Yes. Of course… And Sherlock had not even analysed his own motivation to call his brother. They had been closer than before when they had planned his ‘death’. After his return, they had not met a lot but when they had, things had been easier than before. There had been… affection. Why had he not seen this before? And Mycroft had still been thinking he meant nothing to him.

“Also,” Mycroft continued, “I would have been feeling completely silly among John’s guests. It’s not as if I was part of your Baker Street family.”

“But you’re my family. You, our parents. That’s it.” Not that either of them was close to their parents. This relationship was also pretty difficult, given his and Mycroft's personality and their parents’ ‘normal’ ones. Mummy and Father loved them, sure, but they had never understood them. Not that it mattered. And now even less than ever.

And then he realised that Mycroft's face had shown a strange expression for just a second after he had spoken. “What?”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “No.”

 _What now?_ Sherlock shook his head. “Spit it out, brother.”

Mycroft nodded. “I guess… it can’t stay a secret forever. You need to know, perhaps. Even though you chose to forget about her.”

“Her?”

“Our sister.”

*****

Mycroft returned to the couch with two stiff drinks. They needed them… Had it been a mistake? Should he have kept this secret forever? But Sherlock had seen it in his face, had at least seen that he was troubled by something. And if this should really work, if they were about to develop something new, something meaningful, he felt he could not start it with a lie of such dimensions.

Sherlock was shocked, of course he was. The truth about the sister that was locked away in a secure institution on a secret island was not easy to accept. But when Mycroft had told him about his lost friend Victor Trevor (and he had not so long ago, when Sherlock had made this call from the wedding, made sure that he still thought ‘Redbeard’ had been a dog), the loss of Musgrave and a sister that was pure evil, his walls against these memories had already started to crumble. He had even recited this silly song that Eurus had been singing all the time. Perhaps now they could find out what had really happened to Victor.

“Will you tell our parents?” Sherlock asked him now after downing his whiskey.

Mycroft shook his head. “What good would it do? They think she’s dead. She doesn’t miss them. She has no such feelings.”

Sherlock nodded. “I would still like to meet her.”

He should have seen this coming. He didn’t like this idea. But he had opened Pandora’s box now. Reluctantly, he nodded. “I can arrange it. But it has to be under completely safe conditions.” He wouldn’t allow Eurus to endanger his brother. And her existence had to remain a secret to everybody else.

“Naturally,” Sherlock agreed. “I remember her now. A cute little girl.”

“Yeah. A beautiful maiden with a heart of ice.”

“That was really poetic.” Sherlock suddenly smiled, his whole face changing.

Mycroft was very relieved. Sherlock didn't hate him for not telling him for so long. He didn't seem to be craving to find out about Victor. And what sense would it have made anyway? He was dead. Dead for thirty years. There had been no doubt back then and he didn’t have any doubt now. “Thank you for not… blaming me.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Blame you for what? That she is a true sociopath? That Uncle Rudy locked her away and you took over to be our sister’s keeper? And it was my decision to forget about her. You’re right. It is better that I know now. No secrets between us.”

Mycroft’s heart seemed to grow at this statement. At the fondness of Sherlock's tone. “No, little brother. No secrets.”

The look in Sherlock's eyes changed. Mycroft could see affection – but also longing. The thought was still breathtaking. His baby brother wanted him. After not wanting anyone else before – apart from the odd experimentation in his youth, he assumed – just like himself. But he knew they couldn’t just jump into a sexual relationship. It would be too much, too soon. But he could see Sherlock was craving for some closeness. So he moved closer to him, putting his arm around his brother once more. And Sherlock immediately put his hand onto his cheek and pulled him in for a kiss. A kiss that was not that innocent anymore.

Sherlock's lips tasted like honey and heaven. There was tea and whiskey but beneath this was Sherlock's unique flavour. And Mycroft caught himself wondering how his body was going to taste.

He gasped when Sherlock’s hand slid into his shirt, touching his bare chest. It was a warm spring evening and he wasn’t wearing a vest. Sherlock's hand brushed over his heavily furry chest and he could feel him breathing in sharply.

“You’re okay with that?” Mycroft asked him. He would shave every single hair off his body if Sherlock was repulsed by it.

“Sure,” Sherlock said, smiling. “It just makes you more… real.”

Mycroft didn’t even think of teasing him with this statement. He knew exactly what his brother meant. That he was a real man. No caricature in a fancy suit. No sexless big brother.

He rubbed Sherlock's back through his blue shirt. “You can explore me. If you want.”

“Can we… go upstairs? Get more comfortable?”

“Of course. You’re going to lead the way.”

“You’ve forgotten where your bedroom is?” Sherlock teased him now, grinning.

Mycroft couldn’t get enough of his brother smiling at him. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock,” he said, winking.

“I know – you’re the smart one.”

“No. Just the hairy one.”

Sherlock laughed and it was the best sound that Mycroft heard for ages.

He reached out for Sherlock's hand and his brother, the wondrous man, took it, and they left his living room with their fingers entwined.

*****

“You like that, brother.” Sherlock couldn’t suppress a smirk when he was rolling Mycroft's right nipple between two fingers.

“I can’t deny that.”

They were lying, propped up on several fluffy pillows, on Mycroft's generous bed. Sherlock had only taken off his shoes but Mycroft was bare-chested now.

Sherlock liked the fur on his chest and stomach. He liked it a lot, actually. He also liked kissing him. Mycroft was clearly not much more experienced in this than he was but they had found a pleasurable rhythm very quickly. No disgusting messiness here. Having a tongue in his mouth felt weird, naturally, but he wasn’t feeling repulsed by it at all. And Mycroft's warm, soft skin under the hair, the hard nubs between his fingers, Mycroft trying to keep his control while they were teased – it was all decidedly pleasant.

As it was his habit, he had come to terms with the news about his secret sister very fast. She had been dangerous, still was – so she had to be locked away. She had hidden and obviously killed his childhood friend – there was nothing to be done about anymore. He did recall Victor/Redbeard now and a part of him had mourned him. But this had been a long time ago. He had forgotten about both his sister and his friend – along with lots of memories about his brother. They had come back though. And they mattered. Because this was the new reality. They were in bed, kissing, touching, Mycroft's hand was gently stroking his back while he teased and stroked his furry torso. He would deal with his sister soon. He would get her to tell him where she had killed Victor – as improbable as it seemed that a small child had been physically capable of this. But this was a task for another day. This day belonged to his blooming relationship with a brother that he had wronged for a very long time. And Mycroft had not brought this up. He did not demand or expect apologies and redemption. He would get the latter though, now.

Sherlock put his hand flat on Mycroft's chest, feeling his heart pounding against his palm. “And you always said that you don’t have a heart. In fact you are full of sentiment.”

Mycroft smiled – a smile of fondness and ease. “I am, little brother. Do keep my secret.”

“Well, a secret it will have to be.”

“Naturally, yes. We will have to fight and bicker as we’ve always done when we are in company.”

“We’re very good at it so no problem here.” Sherlock glanced at his brother’s still zipped trousers. The bulge beneath the zip was hard to miss. Mycroft was big. And aroused. Sherlock could feel his own penis straining against its confinements as well. But there was no way to act on this now. It would have been too much.

“Do not worry, brother mine,” Mycroft said and raised his other hand to stroke Sherlock's hair. “We’re in no hurry. And I’m rather hopeful that we’ll survive if we disregard our conditions.”

“Nicely put,” Sherlock said, dryly. “I can force it down with my thoughts.” He didn’t though. It was a bit of torture but a rather nice one.

“So can I.”

“Thinking about this lady who’s got the hots for you?” Sherlock teased him.

“Dear Lord. Don’t mention her in the bedroom!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Apologies.”

Mycroft grinned and let his hand slide over the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. “What do you think – may I possibly touch your precious chest as well?”

Sherlock’s face darkened. “It’s not a pretty sight, brother.” Suddenly he recalled what had brought him here in the first place.

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “You are beautiful, Sherlock. I’d love to caress it. Kiss it better.”

“I don’t think this is scientifically possible,” Sherlock retorted, feeling lighter within an instant. So much sentiment from the so-called Iceman indeed.

“I can still try.”

“Yes, you can.” And Sherlock opened his shirt and let himself be pushed onto his back. He caught Mycroft's look when he glanced at his chest, and for a brief moment he saw his brother’s rage. The rage that had made him kill the woman who had fired a gun at him and given him a deep, nasty scar that would never disappear again. And then Mycroft's soft lips brushed over it and Sherlock closed his eyes, his hand finding the back of his brother’s head, and he enjoyed being worshipped and caressed, in a so far almost innocent way. He found that he loved being touched like this, and he was very sure that eventually, they would be exploring each other in much less innocent ways. Pretty soon actually, he assumed. For now he was happy with the tenderness of Mycroft's touches, and greedily responded when his brother pulled him in for another deep kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

“This is excellent.” Sherlock gestured at the pasta with lemon and tuna and then drank a sip of the also fabulous wine.

Mycroft made a sarcastic little bow. “Thank you, brother mine. You sound surprised though. You thought I can only eat but not cook?” He winked to show Sherlock that he meant no harm.

Sherlock grinned. “I do deserve that. But we both know that you’re slimmer than ever. And that you haven’t needed a diet since you were a teenager.” It had been just his silly habit of lashing out. “You were just too perfect. Only thing I knew I could tease you with.”

“Ah, I am far from being perfect. And there would have been something else...”

“Yeah. Never deduced it.” Sherlock had not asked when Mycroft had fallen for him and he didn’t do it now. In all probability, Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint an exact moment. Love grew on you. Like it was growing on him now.

“I was glad. Never thought you could… reciprocate.” Mycroft sounded as if he still wasn’t sure that Sherlock really did.

“I’m glad I could still surprise you,” Sherlock said calmly.

“I guess my news about our sister surprised _you_ quite a bit as well… And then she and the lot in this institution surprised me…,” he added, shaking his head in bewilderment about the stupidity of certain people.

They had visited Eurus in the morning, two days after Mycroft had told him about her. Actually Mycroft had gone with him to Sherrinford in the helicopter and then disappeared into the governor’s office to talk to the man and make sure there was no problem with Eurus’ incarceration. It had been Sherlock's idea that she could have possibly been the one to launch Moriarty’s strange video after Mycroft had confessed that these two had been in contact five years ago. In fact, it had been. It seemed that Eurus had started to try and control the prison, helped by an evaluation that Mycroft had strictly forbidden. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t been running free,” Mycroft mumbled.

Sherlock wondered if she perhaps had… But he had felt no danger coming from her when he had met her for the first time since they had been six respectively five years old. She had stared at him with her eyes big like saucers. _“You’ve come,”_ she had said, and Sherlock had wondered if she really was the monster Mycroft thought she was.

But then she had talked about the prison and how she had raped and murdered a guard and he had realised that yes, she was exactly that. But she had been almost kind to him. And she had told him about Victor and had revealed where she had put him when he had told her that his family was certainly still wondering what had happened to him. He and Mycroft had agreed that they would anonymously inform the local police that there were bones down that well in which she had drowned him all those years ago. It was better to not get involved directly as Mycroft still thought their parents were better off thinking that their daughter was dead. Sherlock wasn’t so sure about this but he left this decision to his brother – their deadly sister’s keeper.

He would go there again. Not very often but he would. And Mycroft would make sure that she would, under no circumstances, ever leave the prison and kill somebody again. Perhaps Sherlock and Eurus could make a connection. Perhaps one day Mycroft would agree that their parents should meet her, too.

It didn’t matter right now of course. Sherlock was not here to talk about their rather dysfunctional family. This was about evolving their brand new non-brotherly relationship. It was only their second, well, _date_ for a lack of a better word. Both men had been very busy over the last couple of days so they had only been in contact via phone. But now Sherlock was here and he planned to make good use of the next few hours.

So when they had finished eating and stored their plates and cutlery in the dishwasher, Sherlock grabbed for Mycroft's hand.

“Ah,” Mycroft smirked. “I assume you want to go upstairs?”

“A brilliant deduction.”

“Much obliged.”

*****

“Sherlock! Are you all right?”

“Mm. Who said you should stop?” Sherlock smiled with closed eyes. In fact, he might have passed out for a brief moment. An overload of feelings and scents and Mycroft’s lips nibbling at his bent neck while tweaking his nipples in a most delicious way. He would have never thought that a neck was such an erogenous zone or that having his rather flat, small nipples played with would make his (clothed) cock get so hard. But then – his experiences were limited to grabbing cocks and being bothered with kisses that had made him grimace. He had topped only once in his life, just to see how it was. He had never been on bottom, of course not. And certainly nobody had ever been allowed to come so close to him.

“I was a bit worried, little brother.” Mycroft sounded decidedly fond.

“I'm merely getting high on you.” What a sight he was, his big brother, Sherlock thought when he opened his eyes. Naked apart from his pants – which were tenting deliciously. His hair tousled and his eyes bright and lively. No bored politician. A lover. Aiming to please.

“Ah. I think I’ll allow you this kind of addiction.”

Sherlock snorted. “How generous of you.”

Mycroft nodded. “And totally selfless.”

“Of course.” They were teasing each other in a way he wouldn’t have considered possible just a few days ago, either, but Sherlock knew very well that Mycroft was, in a way, very selfless. He reached out and tapped his forefinger against his brother’s dimpled chin. “Dedicating your life to the crown. Doing anything for your little brother. The world doesn’t deserve you, Mycroft Holmes.” _**I**_ _don't deserve you._ This thought was as unexpected as it was true. He had a lot to regret when it came to his brother. More than unjustified jibes about diets and laziness. He was sure Mycroft had not forgotten about having his arm twisted and getting pushed against the wall. A true low point of Sherlock's existence.

Mycroft brushed a kiss onto his lips. “I have to admit that I do not care about the world so much as I'm rather convinced it is doomed. You, on the other hand…”

Sherlock looked at him, a kaleidoscope of memories whirling through his mind. Since he had remembered Eurus and Victor, everything had come back, as if all the private doors of his mind palace had been opened up at the same time. Mycroft had been right – he _had_ always been there for him, no matter how ungratefully and right-out nastily Sherlock had behaved towards him. He most certainly was now. And Sherlock needed him to be there for him in the future as well.

And Mycroft wouldn’t have been Mycroft if he hadn't seen the sentiment in Sherlock's eyes. “Always, little brother.”

“It is a bit disconcerting, you know – you, reading my mind…”

Mycroft smiled. “Not your mind, Sherlock. Just your heart.”

And Sherlock recalled how he had once said to Jim Moriarty that he had been reliably informed that he did not have a heart. Jim had not believed him. And now it was very clear that he had been right. “What happened to ‘caring is not an advantage’?” He saw them standing next to each other in the morgue in his mind’s eye. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and in a way it was.

“I meant caring for certain blackmailing dominatrixes. Not-dead ones, above all, now and then.”

So Mycroft did know that he had saved Irene. Sherlock should have known this. He shook his head. “No danger here, Mycroft. I never think about her. Back then I just thought it would be a shame if her clever head was decapitated.”

“I can't say I agree with you here…” Suddenly Mycroft's eyes were rather cold. But this look was not directed at _him_.

Sherlock grinned, delighted. “My dangerous big brother.” He only briefly felt bad for this grin when he thought of Mary. What was done was done. And considering recent developments between him and Mycroft, it was hard not to think that it had been a very… romantic? thing to do.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as killing her. She is way too unimportant for this.”

“Well, she certainly is for me.” He would finally block her number now and make sure his phone would never moan in this annoying way again.

Well-groomed eyebrows were raised at him. “Why are we talking about her?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” And then Sherlock urged Mycroft to lie down on his back. It was time to have his way with him.

*****

Mycroft watched his little brother nuzzling his face against his furry chest. His hand was on Sherlock's neck, and he was caressing him with gentle strokes of his thumb.

His brother, exploring his body. What a miracle this was to him. He had been feeling like a monster for desiring him ever since he had one day come home to his parents for Christmas, seeing Sherlock for the first time in two years. He had become a young man – stroppy, pouting and out of control but also incredibly beautiful and special. His feeling had only grown from this day on, no matter how much he had been fighting them. It had been easy to hide them from Sherlock though – Mycroft was a born politician, able to cover his feelings perfectly. But his shields had been crumbling ever since he and Sherlock had prepared his disappearance. Working so close to him, on a much friendlier basis than they had been on for almost two decades, his knowledge and power being accepted and even admired to some extent – it had brought deep cracks to the layers of ice he had put around his heart. Missing Sherlock for two years had been horrible. He had been worried to bits. Every call or text from Sherlock had almost made him sob with relief and more than once he had been tempted to go after him and support his mission against Moriarty’s network.

He had been so glad to have him back in London – only to see him almost die at the hands of this unworthy woman. Would Sherlock have suspected that it had been him if he had taken her out right after her attack at his life? It had not taken him long to figure it out now. A part of him had considered the slight possibility that Sherlock could come to the conclusion that he had avenged him – another reason to wait until some time had passed.

He had loved to kiss and worship Sherlock's body – but he had been deeply touched at the deep scar the bullet had left. It had been hard to suppress his fury. A part of him wished he could make Mary Watson alive again to kill her again.

All thoughts vanished when Sherlock straddled him now and bent down to claim his mouth in a passionate kiss. Mycroft couldn’t help but reach out and cup his bum cheeks, making Sherlock gasp. Their cocks were hard, straining against each other now. It was Mycroft's turn to gasp when Sherlock deliberately ground his crotch against his.

The younger man tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. “I think, brother mine – it is time for the next step.”

These words were music to Mycroft's ears.

*****

Mesmerised, Sherlock was staring at his hand, which was sliding up and down on Mycroft's thick shaft. His brother’s member was a mouthwatering sight. Large and pink, only to get pinker with increasing stiffness, the mushroom head wide and moist. He rubbed his thumb over the soft, shiny crown and caught some of the liquid that was pearling out of it. Mycroft chuckled softly when he licked the fluid from his finger.

“Always the scientist, little brother.”

“I can’t help it.” Sherlock winked at him.

“How does it taste?”

“Like sperm.”

Mycroft laughed out loud and ruffled Sherlock's hair. “Insolent boy. You did this before?” He was serious again and Sherlock could sense a hint of pointless jealousy.

“Not like this. There was a bit of fumbling and getting off with men I deleted long ago. Not that there was much to delete. I assume there were some for you, too?” He didn’t like this thought, either. But it was just silly to be jealous of someone who had long left his brother’s life – and had in all probability never meant anything to him to begin with.

Mycroft nodded. “The same. To get it over with – and probably to get over you. Which failed completely, of course.”

So he had fancied Sherlock a long, long time ago. It was a strangely flattering thought. “I wish you had said something.” He knew at once what a silly thing this had been to say. “Well, I do understand why you didn’t.”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “It wouldn’t have gone down too well. There is a time and a place, little brother.”

“Which is here and now.” Sherlock squeezed Mycroft's cock a bit to make his point.

There was a little gasp in response. “Precisely.”

They shared a warm smile. Then Sherlock bent down to lick a stripe over Mycroft's glans. “Nice taste.” He squeezed him a little harder and was chuffed to see Mycroft rolling his eyes in pleasure. “And brother – this is not an experiment for me. This is… sentiment.”

Mycroft blinked rapidly. “Sentiment. A scary thing.”

Sherlock was well aware that Mycroft was not talking about himself. Eventually, Mycroft had accepted his feelings for him – and even shown them in a brotherly capacity when he had told him that he would always be there for him and that his loss would break his heart. Sherlock had come a long way over the past few days. But he didn’t feel like being able to express the feelings he had for his brother. He was in love, pure and simple. Still he settled for: “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I don’t get scared.” He knew that Mycroft could read between the lines.

And he did. “This is very good to know,” he answered, a look of adoration in his beautiful blue eyes.

Mycroft pulled him in to kiss him, and Sherlock, his hand still firmly placed around Mycroft's member, eagerly kissed him back.

“So. I think I should get you off now.”

“Why don’t you line yours up with mine and we get off together?”

“You have some very good ideas these days, big brother mine.”

And so Sherlock found himself grinding his throbbing erection against Mycroft's, his brother’s large hand engulfing both of them, massaging them, and they were both panting and shivering, and Sherlock cried out into his brother’s mouth when he came first, painting their stomachs with white ropes of come, and Mycroft made a mewling little noise that Sherlock would never forget when he followed him, and they fell over each other, both giggling and grabbing one another, and Sherlock realised that had never felt that light and safe before in all his adult life.


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock was sitting in the cab the next morning, he mused that all those silly clichés about being in love were true. Feeling like walking on cloud nine when he had tumbled out of Mycroft's house? Positive. Feeling giddy and renewed and as if everything looked different? Hell, yes. Had he had a silly grin on his face when he had seen his face in the bathroom mirror after receiving a breath-taking blowjob? Oh yes.

He wished he had not made any experiences before, wished to really have been the virgin everybody thought he was. Still it was all so special. He could still see Mycroft's lips wrapped around his cock, going cross-eyed to look into his eyes when he was sucking him. He had done it so well… It had been a very short pleasure, unfortunately, as it had completely overwhelmed him and he had shot his load down his brother’s throat outrageously fast. He had wanted to return the favour but Mycroft had smiled and said that they would have to postpone this as he had to hurry to get to work. He had offered Sherlock to share the car with him but Sherlock was well aware that this wouldn’t have been a good idea. No matter how discreet and loyal his driver might be – they could not risk that. For the world they had to maintain their ‘difficult relationship’. So he had used Mycroft's treadmill a bit when his brother had gone and had a look at the other rooms of the large house. He had not opened any drawers or violated Mycroft's privacy in any other way. That they had sex now didn’t mean his brother and his belongings were his property. Perhaps it even made him grow up… It certainly made him very sentimental...

Now Sherlock pulled out his phone and typed a text.

_Does it sound stupid when I say I’m already missing you? SH_

He stared at the words and then sent them out without any further hesitation. It seemed that he couldn’t say them – not yet. But writing them had been surprisingly easy.

And Mycroft replied at once.

_Not in the least. So am I, little brother. But we will see each other tonight, if no case requires your investigative abilities. MH_

Sherlock was very sure that not even a ‘10’ would keep him from visiting Mycroft as soon as possible. Dammit. He really was in love.

_They will have to wait. I am very keen on paying my debt. SH_

_I can still feel your lips around my prick. SH_

When he had sent this text, he held his breath for a moment. He knew that their lines were secure; Mycroft had told him during the planning for his faked death. But he might have gone too far. And where had this even come from? Sexting? Sexting with his brother? It was most unexpected. And still – another silly grin was pulling at his lips. Changes indeed.

_I spilled my coffee over my folder. Bratty boy. But yes… I can still taste you. MH_

Sherlock felt his trousers get tight. Damn… He should have waited until he was in Baker Street.

_I can’t wait to do it for you. Lick out this little slit of yours. Take the whole big thing down my throat. SH_

_Dear Lord. You are tormenting me. The PM will be here in a minute. Well, my cock will shrink as soon as he comes in. MH_

_Sorry, brother mine. No, not really. SH_

_Evil, little brother. And I can’t wait for you to do this, either. MH_

Sherlock saw that they had almost reached their destination. And his brother was busy.

_Good. Talk later. Be nice to the PM. SH_

_I will try my very best. Have a good day. And yes. Let’s text again later. MH_

Sherlock smiled when he got out of the car. He chuckled when he walked upstairs. And then he froze when he realised that he wasn’t alone in his flat.

*****

The smell of fresh, strong coffee seemed to wake John up. Or perhaps he had heard Sherlock putting the mug onto the table next to the couch where he had obviously spent at least part of the night. Well, his former room was full of Sherlock's stuff now.

He sniffed and seemed to have difficulties opening his eyes. His hair was a tousled mess. He groaned when he moved. “Damn. Killed my back.”

Sherlock had sat down in his armchair, watching his friend, who was wearing one of his awful jumpers, which had seen better days, and a pair of jeans that seemed to be a size too big for him. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming. Alcohol and unwashed body, actually. “Where is Rosie, John?”

The doctor sat up, groaning again and stretching his back. “Harry has her. Wanted to keep her overnight. She's sober, Sherlock. My girl is in good hands.” He reached for the mug as if it was a lifeline and drank eagerly.

Sherlock nodded. “That's good. You're not so sober though.”

“Ah, good coffee, just what I needed. Thanks, man.” He raised the cup and produced something like a smile. “No, Sherlock,” he said then. “I drank half the night after my shift. Made me forget for a while…”

Sherlock refrained from reminding him of his preaching regarding drug use. Illegal or legal – it was not a good idea. But John knew this better than anyone else after all. He was struggling. Heavily. And Sherlock had not even asked how he and Rosie were doing the last couple of days. He had been busy. And he felt very uncomfortable in John's presence, which was certainly understandable. His brother and now lover had turned John into a widower and Rosie into a half-orphan. And he had done it to avenge him, and dammit, Sherlock did find it romantic, and he had never thought he would use such a word in regard to himself, let alone Mycroft. And he doubted very much that John would share his opinion…

“Where have you been all night?” John asked him now, looking more awake. “I texted you but you didn’t reply.”

Damn… He had not even bothered to look up his other messages. His phone had been off during the night. “Had a case.” After which he had showered and shaved? But then, John had not heard him coming home. And he was not the most observant man, not even in his good days, and this was none of it.

John, accepting this explanation, nodded. “Yeah. Guess I'm not of much use for you anymore.”

“Well, you did work last night.” How was he supposed to deal with a self-pitying, depressed John Watson?

“Which you didn’t know,” John retorted, reasonably. Suddenly his eyes were full of tears. “You're right anyway – I wouldn’t have been of any help. It sucks, Sherlock. Being alone with Rosie. Doing my job to not lose it even though I feel like crying all the time. And the worst thing is that I will probably never know who did that.”

Sherlock wished he had been anywhere but here. His pulse was elevated and he feared he would storm out the next moment just to get rid of this awkward situation and his suffering friend.

“I'm sorry,” John said, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. “Nothing anyone needs early in the morning. I'll better go now and fetch Rosie and take her home.”

Sherlock nodded. “Perhaps there will be a case for us in the afternoon.” He didn’t want to lose John completely. Their friendship would certainly never be what it had been before he had faked his death but he vividly remembered all the good times they'd had. The situation was more than weird but they had to move on somehow.

John gave him a wry grin. “Yeah. Would be nice. It's my day off so if something comes up, let me know.” He downed the rest of the coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sherlock watched him go and sighed. When his phone vibrated with a text, he pulled it out eagerly.

_I forgot to ask you if you would like something special for dinner? MH_

Sherlock smiled.

_You. SH_

_Ah. That will be dessert. Will salmon with rice do? MH_

_Sounds good to me. John is here but about to leave. He smells like a distillery and hasn’t seen a shower since the funeral, I assume… SH_

_Oh. I see. Not coping well, obviously. MH_

_Not really. Told him I had a case last night and he bought it. SH_

_That's good. This situation is difficult without a doubt. MH_

_Yes. He even said the worst thing is that he might never know who killed her… SH_

_Understandable. I would say I’m sorry but… MH_

_I know. If a client shows up, or Lestrade has something, I’ll try to distract him with some case work. SH_

Sherlock knew this wouldn’t help much. But it was the best he could do.

_Yes, good idea. The PM is on the way, Sherlock. Talk to you later. MH_

_Okay. Take care. SH_

_And you. MH_

*

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, his fingers twirling a pen around, when the official leader of Great Britain entered his office.

“Morning, Holmes. You look a bit grumpy.”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. “Well, sir, that's how it is sometimes. Would you excuse me for just two minutes? I need to talk to my PA but I'll be right back.”

The blond man in the crumpled, grey suit let himself drop onto the visitor's chair. “Take your time. Coffee would be nice, too.”

“That will be arranged.” Mycroft nodded at him and hurried to go to Anthea, closing the door of his office behind him.

She looked up and smiled. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

“Very good. But I need you to do something else, as soon as possible.” In fact, he should have thought about this before he had pulled the trigger. He was slipping indeed.

Anthea put the phone she'd been holding onto the desk. “Sure. What is it?”

Mycroft explained it to her and she nodded, as always understanding at once. “It might take me two or three hours to get it all done.”

Mycroft smiled at her, gratefully. “That sounds perfect. I owe you.”

She shook her head. “You definitely don't, sir. I'll take care of it with pleasure.”

Sometimes he thought he'd be lost without her. “Thank you.” They shared a smile and he returned to the PM for a probably tedious conversation. It would certainly still be more bearable than the one his brother had had to endure with his former flatmate…

*****

When Sherlock returned to the living room after showing the grateful client out, John had slumped in his chair again like the last time the case had been solved. He had looked livelier and less depressed when they had been listening to the stories of the elderly man and the middle-aged woman (and they had not been exactly interesting but Sherlock had endured it) and when Sherlock had delivered his solution, but as soon as it had been over, reality had hit the doctor again. He had showered and shaved and changed his clothes since he had left 221B in the morning but his mood had not improved, naturally.

“Would you like more tea?” Sherlock asked him, not knowing what else to say.

“Nah. Thanks. I'm fine.”

Which he of course was not. Sherlock almost regretted having asked him to come over. He sat down again, hoping for someone else to show up and distract the doctor.

His wish was fulfilled a few seconds later. He swallowed when he heard the straightening of the door knocker. Mycroft had not told him he was about to come over!

“Damn, your brother,” John mumbled, having heard it, too. Then he gasped. “Perhaps he has news about Mary! You did ask him for help, didn’t you?”

Oh. Could that be? Sherlock nodded. “I did. He said he would have some people on it.” John had not even asked about his conversation with his brother about the murder before. But did Mycroft really know that John was with him? He wouldn’t come in and say something he shouldn’t, giving them away, would he?

He had been worried for no reason. When Mycroft entered the room, his umbrella in one hand, a thin folder in the other one, he pretended to be surprised about John being there, but he clearly wasn’t. “Sherlock. Doctor Watson, it’s good that you are here. I have news for you.”

“About Mary?” John, who had stood up in excitement, asked eagerly. “Sit down, Mycroft!”

“Yes. Spit it out, brother,” Sherlock demanded, and he was surprised how easy it was to behave towards his brother like he had always done in John’s presence.

“Always so polite,” Mycroft drawled but he sat down on the couch. “And yes. It is about Mary.”

What now? What had his brother hatched? He was certainly not here to confess that he had killed her…

“Well, I can’t tell you the full story. It is a Secret Service matter. But I can tell you, and I will give this information to Scotland Yard as well, that the murderer was found dead in the early morning hours, in Sussex. There is no doubt about his guilt – the murder weapon was found in his possession.”

 _Oh, Mycroft, you genius…_ Sherlock tried to keep an unimpressed façade while listening to the questions that John was firing off as it was to be expected. Mycroft had answers to all of them. This had been meticulously planned. On short notice, though, Sherlock assumed, following their texting exchange in the morning.

Mycroft presented pictures of a dead man in his thirties, apparently having killed himself. With the weapon that had ended Mary’s life.

Sneaking into police database? Manipulating evidence? Certainly, but someone had obviously physically exchanged the weapons. Anthea, in all probability. High risk manoeuvre. But not for a woman that was obviously much more than someone to manage Mycroft's schedule and make tea.

Mycroft told John and him about a – very certainly fictitious – past of the man who had allegedly been holding a grudge against Mary, which had led to her being shot. Mycroft claimed that he had been an assassin like Mary. Both of them had been involved in a hit that had gone wrong – an attempt at freeing hostages in an embassy that had ended with lots of dead people. The events in the embassy had certainly happened for real, with or without Mary or whatever her real name had been. Mycroft would have made sure that this was all bulletproof, so to speak, just in case someone got nosy… The man was real – even though he had certainly not had any connection with an intelligent agency of any kind or with Mary, let alone had ever killed anyone. But he had committed suicide indeed – definitely not with Mycroft's gun though. It was a brilliant move, excellently executed and very believably explained by a skilled liar.

And John bought it. Completely. He was even smiling at Mycroft and expressed his gratitude heartily.

Sherlock assumed that he should be feeling awkward, listening to the real killer blaming the crime on someone who had done nothing more than ending his own life with a gun that had looked similar enough to the one that was now being contained at a police station. But all he felt was gratitude, too, that Mycroft had given John the – albeit false – murderer, and adoration for his cunning scheme. He did not doubt that Lestrade would buy it, too. The background of the man named Louis Smith was labelled ‘high secret’ so the DI would not be able to validate it. Sherlock was impressed. He was positively awestruck. He wanted to be all over his brother.

And John did him the favour to leave. Appearing like a new man, he insisted on shaking Mycroft's hand, vibrating with renewed energy. Mary was still dead but now he thought he knew who had done it and why – an old accomplice with an old grudge. Nothing that John could have prevented. Not that he could have prevented Sherlock from getting shot by Mary. But to direct his wrath at someone he didn’t know and who had even taken his life afterwards had helped him, obviously. Mycroft had not gone so far as to produce a suicide note with a confession regarding Mary, obviously thinking that John would blame it on the man’s bad conscience anyway.

So the doctor left in a much higher spirit than he had come with, and the brothers shared a look when they heard the front door closing behind him.

Sherlock got up. “You sneaky, cunning man.” His voice was dripping with adoration.

Mycroft smiled, looking pleased and just a bit smug. “I had to give him something. And even if he or the police question my version – there is no chance that they can prove it wrong.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock had reached his brother and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Brilliant.”

“Elementary.”

They smiled at each other and then their lips crashed together in a heated, needy kiss.

*****

Dinner had been excellent. Mycroft had explained Sherlock in all detail how Anthea had delivered their false-murderer-coup. There had been even giggles and hands touching each other across the beautifully laid table and feet nudging against each other under it.

And now there standing next to Mycroft's bed, both fully naked, Mycroft's arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, Sherlock’s hands on Mycroft's cheeks, his thumb caressing his lips. And Mycroft asked, “Would you like to have dessert now?” and Sherlock nodded eagerly.

Yes, he wanted his dessert. And even more he wanted to have sex, real sex, with his gorgeous big brother.

Mycroft saw it in his eyes. “You’re sure? It’s not too soon?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I want to have you inside me, brother mine.”

Mycroft shuddered visibly; his pupils were blown wide. “I want this very much. But if it hurts you or you don’t feel comfortable, just say the word and...”

“…you’ll stop, I know. Caring big brother.”

“Caring lover,” Mycroft corrected him.

Sherlock tapped a finger against his ear. “Both. We’ll do it. I demand it. But before – lie down so I can get you in my mouth.” He glanced at Mycroft's erect cock, standing proud against his hairy stomach.

“If you get me off with this, I can’t promise I can top you later,” Mycroft mumbled.

“I’m sure you could. But I’ll stop before you come if you think you’re too middle-aged for a second round.” Sherlock winked at him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Insolent boys don’t deserve any creamy dessert anyway.”

“Don’t they now?” Sherlock closed his hand around his hot prick. “What do they deserve then?”

“To get fucked.” Mycroft deadpanned.

Sherlock laughed out loud and then he bent down to taste his tasty big brother.

*****

Mycroft looked up to Sherlock, his hands sliding over his brother’s smooth sides. They were connected. In the most intimate way they could be.

The past hour had been sensory overload – Sherlock soft, moist lips around his throbbing cock, his wet tongue teasingly licking around his crown and into his slit, lapping at his frenulum, licking up and down his shaft, his hands fondling his heavy balls. He could have come like this, easily, and yes, he would have been able to get hard again but he a) didn't want to overwhelm Sherlock at his first blowjob for him (and probably ever) with coming into his mouth and he really didn't want to spurt into his face, either, and b) he knew Sherlock was burning to feel him inside of him and he wanted this so much as well.

So he had urged his brother to stop – and chuckled at Sherlock's pout when his new toy was taken away from him – and asked him to present his arse to him so he could prepare him. This had placated his little brother at once, and he had moaned himself through the process of having opened his virgin hole up with the help of lubricant, two fingers and an eager tongue.

Mycroft could still taste his brother on his tongue and he hoped to repeat this performance over and over. Judging from the noises Sherlock had been producing, his lover would not be averse to this.

Now Sherlock, straddling his lap, was taking him in deeper, breathing hard.

“Don’t overdo it, Sherlock. There is no use in hurting yourself.”

Sherlock looked down on him and patted his stomach. “I know I have a self-destructive streak, brother, and I know you have a fat cock, but it just feels awesome and I’m taking as much of you as I want to.” To make a point, he bounced a bit, making Mycroft’s brain go all dizzy.

“You are incorrigible,” he rasped out when he could think again.

“Get used to it,” was the dry and expected reply, and then Sherlock started to ride him in earnest, producing squelching noises and making the bed rock, and Mycroft moaned and closed his eyes and gave himself to all the sensations and the feeling of utter bliss.

*****

Sherlock had loved licking and sucking his brother's massive cock. The scientist in him had catalogued the scent and taste and texture of the smooth, sweet skin, as well as his brother's delicate reactions. Just as he had expected, Mycroft was rather quiet even when he was aroused. But he had been moaning in a low voice, just as he did now that Sherlock was riding him. Being opened up by his brother's gentle fingers had felt amazing. His long, hot tongue in his arse had almost driven him insane with arousal (and Sherlock had no qualms about being loud). Taking his large penis inside him had hurt at first, and in fact, it was still burning and feeling weird. Sherlock had never even considering putting something into his anal canal. But despite being hardly comfortable, he felt a different sort of burning as well, and it got stronger the more his muscles relaxed around the thick intruder.

He was rather sure that he wouldn’t be able to come due to prostate stimulation alone though, and perhaps being on top of his brother wasn't the perfect position for him, but he loved to watch Mycroft's face, bare of all shields, while he was moving up and down; he loved being held at the hips by those long, elegant fingers, and he felt his arousal building up steadily.

Mycroft had a perfect view at his upper body though, and Sherlock caught him looking at the scar beneath his heart more than once. It would never disappear, and neither would the memories of both of them. Mycroft still hated Mary, and he was not much fonder of John, Sherlock assumed. Which made his efforts from today even more remarkable. He was well aware that Mycroft had mostly done it for him so he could still be with the doctor in a not overly awkward way. John would get over it now with his new ‘knowledge’. He would find someone else eventually. And since the flat was too small for Sherlock, him and Rosie and all their belongings, he wouldn’t move back in with him, which would have been rather inconvenient anyway as things were with him and Mycroft now. If he really suggested it, Sherlock would decline. Things would never be the same again for the former flatmates. But they could find some sort of peace now.

He and Mycroft had found each other days ago but this day felt like another beginning. From the ashes of murder they had risen as a couple deeply in love. Their lovemaking was sealing this bond now and they could leave the past behind. Neither of them would ever forget it but Sherlock felt that they had both come out of it as changed men, stronger than ever. Mycroft had proven his love for him in a brutal, relentless way, and Sherlock had accepted it, had applauded him for his brilliant solution today, and he felt nothing but happiness and calmness now. He loved his brother, deeply and madly, and suddenly he wanted Mycroft to reach his completion, to fill him up. They both knew they were clean – after being shot, Sherlock had been tested thoroughly once more. And Mycroft had not even touched anyone for the past ten years and was as safe as he could get.

Sherlock increased his efforts, making his brother shudder and pant, and then Mycroft's seed shot up into his passage, and while he was crying out, finally getting loud, Mycroft closed his hand around Sherlock's prick. It only took five or six rough strokes and then Sherlock was coming, too, painting his brother's stomach with stripes of semen before collapsing all over him, not caring about the mess he was landing in, or the fluids that were dribbling out of his burning orifice when Mycroft slipped out.

In his post coital dizziness, he nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck, feeling his brother's warm hands caressing his back.

And now the words came to him easily.

“I love you, big brother mine.”

Mycroft stilled for a moment before squeezing him tight. “I'm so glad, Sherlock. I've loved you forever, and to have this… It's all I've ever wanted.”

“The sentimental Holmes brothers,” Sherlock teased, kissing his brother's soft neck.

“Horribly sappy, those men,” Mycroft agreed, chuckling.

“What will you do if anyone tries to steal me from you?”

Mycroft smiled and patted his back. “Kill them, of course.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You're totally serious about that, aren't you?”

“Deadly.”

“Good.”

They dozed off, entangled with each other, happy and satisfied and both determined to hold onto this forever – a love that might not dare speak its name but that was strong and deep and wonderful. And Sherlock knew that they would both do anything for one another – absolutely anything.

💕 The End 💕


End file.
